


The Empty Sky

by Northland



Category: Earthsea - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: Canon Holiday, Gen, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Sunreturn, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northland/pseuds/Northland
Summary: Re Albi kept the day of Sunreturn in silence and hunger until the feast at sunset, as was proper in the Hardic lands.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lefaym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/gifts).



> Revisiting Gont was delightful. I hope you enjoy!

This is the solstice, the still point  
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,  
the year’s threshold  
and unlocking, where the past  
lets go of and becomes the future;  
the place of caught breath, the door  
of a vanished house left ajar.

 _Solstice Poem_ , Margaret Atwood

 

Tenar knew there was little use in straining her eyes to search for flakes of fire borne on the western wind, but it was hard not to. At least now, when winter mists and cloud drew close in on the slopes of Gont, it was less difficult to keep her gaze from the dim horizon. During the short nights of summer her eyes returned again and again to Tehanu’s namesake star burning in the upper air, so bright the darkness around it seemed to shimmer.

This would be Tenar’s first Sunreturn in Re Albi for many years. She and Ged usually travelled to Middle Valley, but despite the prospect of better company in her daughter’s house, Tenar was reluctant to leave the village this winter. Moss was ready to cross the threshold that she had been hovering at for so long, and Tenar wanted to be present when she did. It would likely be soon. She might even pass during the Fallows, the unlucky dark of the moon just after Sunreturn; a witch like Moss would consider that a fitting time to die.

Tenar shivered and tucked her chin lower into the folds of her scarf. Ged looked over at her, but she shook her head, not wanting to share her thought.

This far down the mountainside they would not see heavy snows until after the Fallows. Grey piles of half-melted slush slumped against the houses, though, and thin ice crackled in the basin of the sluggish fountain. The trees around the muddy village square were decorated for the season with strings of feathers, nuts, and eggshells hanging from their branches bobbing in the wind from the sea. Tehanu had loved to blow the eggs out and paint them, a delicate goathair brush secure in her unburnt left hand.

Doors were shut and lights extinguished as the two of them passed through the village. Re Albi kept the day of Sunreturn in silence and hunger until the feast at sunset, as was proper in the Hardic lands. Tenar was well used to ascetic practices, and had fasted much longer than a brief winter’s day; it was the feast she still found strange, all these years later. In the Place of the Tombs ritual meals had mostly consisted of animals given to the gods, and divided among all of the priestesses, novices, and eunuchs one sacrificial goat or lamb did not make a lavish feast. 

Tenar’s mouth twisted into a wry smile at the thought of where tonight’s feast would be held. By rights it should always have been at the Lord’s manor; but aloof and infamous, scorned and scornful, the previous Lords of Re Albi had not been such hosts that those living on their demesne would have accepted their hospitality, even if it were offered. 

That had changed when the old Lord died, following closely upon his hireling sorcerer’s death. The manor and the land had been at law for years afterward, with cousins of various removals and distant kin by marriage arguing who had the best claim, until the King Lebannen himself took an interest from far Havnor. He sent councillors who heard testimony from ancient villagers and from the old Lord’s sister-in-law, and who finally declared that the rightful lord of Re Albi was a shipwright named Kor from East Port. 

The grandson of the old lord’s brother, Kor had never expected nor sought the inheritance, but accepted it when it came. He had been bewildered to find the villagers suspicious and closed-mouthed, for his great-uncle’s dubious reputation had not travelled to the far side of Gont Mountain. But his open warmth and his wife’s self-conscious generosity had soon persuaded them that he was not such a bad sort. 

It had taken Tenar and Ged much longer to warm to the new lord. 

Beside her Ged’s steps were not heavy, but firm. He climbed the path to the manor like a man who’d know the ground beneath his feet blindfolded, as indeed he would here in his home place. Tenar walked next to him mechanically. Her thoughts turned and spiralled like migrating birds, circling back to old times here, the years she had lived in the Mage’s House on the cliff, first with Ogion and then later with Tehanu and Ged. 

“Do you remember when Kor brought that puppy for Tehanu?” she asked. 

Ged laughed. “I do. I thought you were going to throw him out for it.”

“I never much cared for dogs,” Tenar said. Cats she’d known from the mousers kept around the Place, and liked. They knew their place (above humans) and were usually graciously willing to accept tribute.

She hadn’t seen many dogs until she came to Gont, where many of the sheep farmers kept some to help guide and guard the herds. They were usually grubby white bear-sized creatures which drooled and smelled bad. Tenar had considered them appropriate companions for these barbarian islanders.

But Kor’s small, wiggling bundle was more like a kitten--mostly fluff and a rough, seeking tongue.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he’d said, shrugging helplessly. “My great-uncle kept hunting hounds that I’ve no use for, but I wouldn’t put them down for no reason. Then one of them escaped the kennel while she was in heat and got a litter from one of the sheepdogs. I’ve given away all the other pups but the runt here.”

Tenar had opened her mouth to refuse, more or less politely, for she didn’t want gifts from any Lord of Re Albi. Nor could she see what use her family might have for a dog--especially when one of them was a dragon, of a sort. Who knew what a hound would make of her daughter?

Ged had forestalled her by asking gently, “Tehanu? What do you think?”

Their daughter held out both of her hands, the smooth brown palm and the rough claw cupped together, and Kor set the pup in them. 

It was a grey dog-pup with white blotches. He stirred, paws flexing and paddling at the air, and half-opened one blue eye. A small shell-pink slip of tongue scraped along Tehanu’s right hand. Then he’d settled back, curling into a peaceful ball, neck twisted at an absurd angle.

“ _Hulun_ ,” Tehanu had whispered in her brushed-metal voice--the word for “dog” in the Language of the Making. One corner of her mouth flickered up in her rare, delighted smile.

Kor had beamed, pleased to be giving the poor shy creature (as he thought of Tehanu) a pet, and Tenar and Ged had looked at each other with resignation at adding another member to their household. 

They didn’t call him “hulun” of course. As a pup he had several names, including Dummy, but in the end he came to be known as Makall after the mage's faithful companion in one of Tehanu’s favourite stories. He’d grown into a huge, silky-coated dog who rarely barked, far too dignified to express emotion by any means other than a gentle wave of his plumed tail. He had never seemed to realize that Tehanu bore fire in her veins, or if he did he did not care. 

But like many big dogs, Makall didn’t live long. He had curled up on the hearth and slipped into his final doze not long before Lebannen’s message asking Tehanu to come to Havnor and consult about the dragons’ depredations had arrived. 

“Maybe we should get another dog,” Tenar said.

Ged looked sidewise at her. “Maybe. Not a puppy, though. Or maybe we should take one of Moss’ cats instead.”

He was right. Several of the half-feral cats and kittens living under Moss' roof would need another home soon; Heather couldn’t care for them all as well as herself. Tenar sighed and watched the path a while instead of talking. 

From the outside, with its windows shuttered to keep the light in, the Manor house looked dark and grim. Tenar knew that inside it would be warm and inviting, with the whole village gathered to eat the lord’s plenty and to gawk at its fine marble floors. She still had to clench her jaw to enter, gathering her strength against the memory of the foulness she had encountered here.

Once the firelight and noise washed over her, it was not so hard. Ged and Tenar were given a seat of some distinction, not at the Lord’s table itself but close by. It might seem strange for the pale Kargish woman and the scarred, silent man called Hawk to be so honoured. But by now all the villagers of Re Albi knew full well who they both were, for all that they didn’t speak of it and would never admit it to a soul born off the Overfell. Gontish folk were closemouthed; other islands said of them that they could hold their breath and their secrets longer than a pearl diver. (At the same time, the knowledge did not keep the village from singing the Deed of Sparrowhawk which told how the archmage flew away on Kalessin, never to be seen again, with great gusto at the Spring Festival. Ged generally took himself up the mountain with the goats at that time.)

Re Albi was too small a village to have a chanter, but this year Lord Kor had invited one to come up from Gont Port for the festival. She sang the Deed of the Young King in a firm contralto, drawing the notes out long and fine. When she came to the lines that told of Soléa’s whelming beneath the sea, the thick silence in the hall was her applause. Even the young children were quiet, listening to Elfarran’s lament as she waited for the towering wave.

The whole hall stood to sing the Winter Carol together, and then the feast began. 

Kor had not stinted. Platter after broad platter was passed along the tables loaded with mutton, ham, and sausage; goat cheese (some of which came from Ged’s herd) and salty olives; fresh bread, winter butter and whinberry jam. Tenar ate, and watched, and listened. Part of her savoured the heat and the light, the crowd of her neighbours, and even the loud conversations ringing from the stone walls. Another part of her, as always nowadays, was straining toward the uttermost west, seeking after her daughter in helpless longing. Where was Tehanu and what was she doing at this moment? 

She wondered if dragons marked Sunreturn. They were creatures who lived on air and light, after all; it seemed fitting for them to celebrate the moment the sun turned back from winter darkness as well.

“Do dragons sing?” she asked Ged.

“I don’t know.” He sipped at their shared cup of Gontish red and considered the question for a moment. “At least, I never heard them sing. But they dance. In the high air, they dance.” His scarred hand covered hers for a moment.

That was true. Tenar had seen them on that other wind, spiralling in patterns she could almost recognize if not interpret. 

So the longest night wore on with eating and drinking and dancing. Ged and the Chanter from Gont Port, who was called Tawny, had a long and scholarly discussion of the earliest variant forms of the Deed of Enlad. The littlest children fell asleep sprawled on their parents’ laps or on the benches, with faces sticky from preserved fruit. Tenar sat with Moss, helping her take small sips of the flinty red wine, and watched Heather whirl with her skirts kilted high. 

At the moment when the first lightening of the eastern sky on the other side of the dark mass of Gont Mountain could be seen, the Carol was sung again. This time it was the young folk of the village, those with one foot poised to step into adulthood. Pride and excitement shone in their eyes as their clear, untrained voices rang through the hall. 

After the Carol it was time for home and bed. Children were gathered, whining or shrieking with exhaustion, and everyone wrapped and bundled themselves into faceless effigies of scarves and cloaks for the walk down the hill.

Tenar and Ged lingered, saying farewell to the Chanter, so that the crowd would be ahead of them on the walk down the mountain path. They walked slowly to preserve their solitude. Here under the trees, it was still dark, but they followed the murmur of voices ahead, the path shining with hoarfrost everywhere except where the dark footprints of the villagers were stamped on it. 

When they reached the fork in the path that led to the Old Mage’s House, they turned for home. But Tenar walked on past the house to the edge of the Overfell. She wanted to see the sky before she slept.

Today would be clear and frigid; the air was already brittle in her lungs. The clouds had slowly drawn back, almost imperceptibly, until the western horizon was clear. As light welled up in the eastern half of the sky bringing the sun behind it, the darkness in the west did not brighten but faded to a clear pale grey. In that vast distanceless reach the faint stars remaining were like sparks thrown off by fire, like dragons dancing on the other wind.

Tenar drew in a long breath and rested her head on Ged’s shoulder, watching the stars fade and be absorbed into the light of dawn. 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to egelantier for swift beta-reading and encouragement.
> 
> Some elements of how Sunreturn is celebrated in the Archipelago were borrowed from the Kesh people of LeGuin's _Always Coming Home_.


End file.
